


Almost a Stranger

by mellish



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Childhood Friends, Complicated Relationships, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, M/M, Pining, Post-University Timeline, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22501042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: There are only two things that have ever broken Oikawa Tooru’s heart. Iwa-chan would say Tooru has no heart to break, but that’s simply untrue.The first is volleyball, that old flame. The second is his idiot best friend.Iwa-chan's leaving Japan. Tooru's not sure he can forgive him, but he's not going to admit his long-held feelings, either. A trip to Miyajima complicates everything.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 42
Kudos: 416





	Almost a Stranger

**i. high tide**

“You’re sulking.”

Iwa-chan says it softly, at the last stoplight before the short sloping hill to their apartment. He has the room two doors down the hall from Tooru’s, which Tooru finds poetic: it’s like how they grew up two houses apart on the same street. Tooru’s only half-listening because his head hurts and he really shouldn’t have let Mattsun pour him those last two shots. Also, he’s annoyed that Iwa-chan is _right_. He’s sulking royally. Not even Makki’s ghastly rendition of AKB48’s Heavy Rotation at karaoke could distract him from the sting of his heart through his chest: a dull ache, as inconvenient and perennial as the twinge in his right knee on bad days.

“I’m not! You’re just drunk,” Tooru says brightly, though it takes him two tries to hit the elevator button.

“Look who’s talking,” Iwa-chan grumbles, grasping his shoulder to steady him because fuck, he’s swaying. Tooru sticks his tongue out. He’s getting panicky because tears are starting to prick behind his eyes. If he starts crying Iwa-chan will probably punch him, so he employs all his self-preservation and keeps it together. It seems like the moment will pass, like they’ll stay silent until Tooru can reach a toilet and retch to his heart’s content, but when the elevator opens Iwa-chan adds, “It’s okay for you to be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” Tooru insists as they step inside, though now he thinks about it, he’s fucking furious. He grins, hopes his eyes aren’t betraying him. “I’m _thrilled_ for you. Look at my smile! It will bless you while you’re oceans away.”

“It’s just a year.”

 _A year’s too long,_ Tooru doesn’t say, because it’ll come out needy instead of flippant, when it’s this late and he’s this tired. The elevator opens onto their floor; after a brief hesitation Iwa-chan takes Tooru by the wrist and tugs him down the hall. Tooru’s fighting tears _and_ nausea with everything he has, so he allows this. Iwa-chan finds the key in his pocket and opens his door, steers him gently inside. “Brush your teeth and wash your face before you go to sleep, Shittykawa.”

“ _Yes_ , mom. God, I am so going to miss you pestering me all the time.” Tooru starts peeling off his jacket, irritated beyond belief. After _ditching him_ , Iwa-chan has the nerve to pretend to care. “I’ll be fine, you can go now.”

“Hey. Oikawa.” Iwa-chan reaches out, and Tooru tenses for a forehead flick—and instead gets a—a _head pat_. Mystifyingly, in the dim light, Iwa-chan doesn’t look annoyed, he looks…well, whatever that look is. Wondering? Gruff? His hand is extremely heavy. Tooru wants to lean into it, but he’s too confused, and his confusion only grows when Iwa-chan says, “Want to take a trip with me? Before I go?”

Tooru wants to say no, wants to yell _how dare you ask me that, are you just trying to torture me at this point?!_ —wants to slap Iwa-chan’s stupid face, three times on each side, then kiss him for good measure because Iwa-chan’s eyes have gone soft and serious and he has never, not once, stopped looking like _he cares_ , which is the worst thing about this whole situation. They’re still best friends. That’s the problem and solution all wrapped up in big fat question marks.

Tooru doesn’t know when this got so exhausting, only that he hates it.

“Sure.” He wants to drop his gaze but smiles instead, til his eyes are half-closed so he doesn’t need to see Iwa-chan’s face. “I knew it! You’ll miss me too!”

“Never said I wouldn’t,” Iwa-chan says, which is so unfair. He ruffles Tooru’s hair and heads out the door.

“You can’t pat the head of someone taller than you! It’s not allowed!” Tooru shouts, but all Iwa-chan does is wave; he doesn’t even turn around.

#

There are only two things that have ever broken Oikawa Tooru’s heart. Iwa-chan would say Tooru has no heart to break, but that’s simply untrue.

The first is volleyball, that old flame. There are long stretches of time when Tooru thinks volleyball loves him back: games when he’s on fire and the ball feels perfect in his hands, rallies where he makes the right split-second decision, serves in which all those hours of practice are _worth it_ , his opponent gaping in terror as the ball smacks the court. Then there are days when it’s _such_ a bad romance: rivals he can’t beat, genius he can’t come compete with, plays that reveal his inadequacies in all their ugly glory. Nothing has made him cry half as much as volleyball. He understands it’s not productive to carry regrets for eternity, but his inability to forget any lost match, any petty slight, _might_ be what finally has him in the running for Men’s Nationals. Volleyball is his grudge and lifeline, his raison d’être. He said yes to it long ago, and he’ll keep saying yes for as long as he can.

The second heartbreaker is his idiot best friend. To Tooru’s great misfortune, he realized he was in love with Iwaizumi Hajime probably a long time _after_ he fell in love. There was no specific incident; something came unstuck in Tooru’s brain, and suddenly he had fallen hard for fucking _Iwa-chan_. From then it was like an unstoppable flood of noticing small things every terrible day. The way Iwa-chan laughed, big and loud, like he always really _meant_ it (because he did). How an adorable little divot appeared between his eyebrows whenever he yelled at Tooru, never mind that Tooru annoyed him just to hear him yell. The way he smelled after practice, skin and sweat and sweetly _familiar,_ tugging his shirt off thoughtlessly in a way that made Tooru’s gut burn, and not because he’d done ab exercises that morning.

In short: by the time Tooru figured out his feelings, the whole thing was too far gone to correct. It happened junior year of high school, an unnecessary addition to exams and training and choosing which university to attend. It disgusted Tooru that the first person he’d ever legitimately crush on just _had_ to be Iwa-chan. He was rough and mean, there were far too many photos of them naked together as kids because their moms were evil, and the sheer amount of dirt they had on each other could populate multiple landfills—but none of that mattered because Iwa-chan was suddenly _perfect in his eyes_ , gross.

Desperate for an antidote, Tooru promptly got a girlfriend. Girls were soft, indulgent, and correct. They also did not pose any risk that was even remotely in the neighborhood of _confessing to your childhood best friend._ Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, Tooru proceeded to live out every terrible playboy accusation that had been levied on him despite his previous seventeen years of innocence. It got so bad that after the third girl dumped him Iwa-chan dragged him to the roof and shouted, “Be cool to your girlfriends or stop _having_ them, Shittykawa!”

“Ugh! It’s not my fault! Girls are so demanding.”

“Don’t use volleyball as an excuse! Yes, you’re a fucking _prince_ and everyone’s obsessed with your face, but people have a _limit_ to how much of your shitty attitude they can take!” A vein was straining against Iwa-chan’s neck, which was oddly hot.

“ _You_ don’t seem to have a limit.”

“I’m used to you being complete shit,” Iwa-chan growled. “Look, I just—I don’t want people to start thinking badly of you. Not when we’re about to graduate. You have a habit of understanding people’s weak points and using it to your advantage, and that’s fine in a _match_ , but it’s not fair to those girls. They really care about you, you know?” There’d been a strange melancholy to Iwa-chan then, a prompting in his eyes that made Tooru feel like a kitten being held by the scruff of his neck. He was instantly ashamed.

“Okay,” Tooru said, contrite. “I’ll be nicer to the next one.”

“Good!” Iwa-chan looked so relieved, so desperate for Tooru to make it _all right_ with some _random girl who didn’t even matter_ , that Tooru was suddenly sure: Iwa-chan would never see him _that way_. Perhaps Iwa-chan loved him, but it was in the reflexive, obligatory way you loved someone you’d known all your life. In fact, it was _obvious_ Iwa-chan was the most hetero person to ever walk across a volleyball court. He would undoubtedly procure his own cute girlfriend soon, as graduation approached and girls got more ballsy with their confessions. Which was, honestly, probably for the best. It made Tooru’s next move a lot clearer: he would never, ever do anything about these feelings, except smother them by finding some passionate new love at university.

It worked out better in his head than in reality. Tooru continued to be shit at relationships; his attraction to Iwa-chan didn’t go away. Tooru did not know how to _pine_ gracefully. He flip-flopped between setting Iwa-chan up with random girls and loudly expressing his distaste for them when things got too serious. He got increasingly flirty and needy, but scoffed whenever Iwa-chan said he was acting up. In the end he never quite accepted that _he_ was the one with unrequited love. It was a secret that followed him through four years of university, a slow-acting sadness that kept him relying on Iwa-chan’s kindness and attention far more than was healthy.

#

Iwa-chan falls asleep on Tooru’s shoulder on the train ride to Hiroshima. Tooru hums and continues selecting the Instagram post that will mark the start of their journey (he settles on the onigiri they picked up from 7/11 that morning, putting sparkly heart emoji all over it, and a dancing llama sticker). He snickers as he snaps a photo of Iwa-chan’s slack face, then adjusts his shoulder to make sure he’s more comfortable. It’s been two weeks since Iwa-chan told them all he was going abroad. In the intervening time Tooru’s indulged in a little maturity to suss out what he really feels. There’s anger, yes, but he can’t hold onto it—not when he’s also genuinely happy for Iwa-chan, and proud of him besides. _When did you get so good at English you could study abroad_ , he wants to ask. _Is studying for the TOEFL what you did instead of volleyball all of last year?_

Truthfully, he feels mostly loss and resignation. He’s been feeling adrift since their graduation ceremonies, a month ago in early spring. Since then everything has felt temporary, tenuous—from his discussions with other league teams, to Iwa-chan’s work at that hip little photography studio. In truth Tooru knows they’ve been careening to this moment for years now, that living so close to each other during university was the product of luck and effort and (he’d like to think) mutual clinginess, but now they’re adults and out of excuses. He’s got his volleyball career to think about, and Iwa-chan’s got—life, and everything else that isn’t school or sports. Or him.

“Why Hiroshima?” he asked, when Iwa-chan showed up to check if the ticket prices were all right.

“I thought it would be good to practice some photography on Miyajima.”

“That’s cool,” Tooru said. “I haven’t been back since the fourth grade—remember that trip?”

“The one where a deer bit your arm because you kept taunting it and you used all of sensei’s tissues sobbing your eyes out?”

“The bite _hurt_ and the deer might have had _rabies_!”

“ _You_ have rabies,” Iwa-chan said, knocking Tooru’s head, but his smile had been fond, twisting the usual knot in Tooru’s heart.

He pats Iwa-chan’s head now, finds himself (yet again) surprised by how those stupid spikes are a lot softer than they look. He imagines what it would feel like to grasp them in the midst of a kiss, then hates himself.

He’s still petting Iwa-chan when he finally notices the kid in the seat in front of them, staring over the headrest. Tooru’s first instinct is to blush and his second is to stick his tongue out, but instead he keeps his gaze level, maintains his rhythmic smoothing of Iwa-chan’s hair. It feels like a challenge— _look disgusted, tell me this is wrong._ If Iwa-chan were awake he would berate Tooru for picking fights with children _._

But all the kid does is _smile_ , like they’re doing something perfectly all right. Tooru swallows, traces the bridge of Iwa-chan’s nose, drops his hand into his lap. The brat’s too young to know better.

#

They deposit their luggage at the Dormy Inn. There’s the briefest awkwardness as the receptionist looks between them and says, “Oh—did you mean to book separate beds? The reservation is only for one.”

“Eh?” Iwa-chan looks up from where he’s putting away his credit card.

Oikawa glides in, flashes his most _delicious_ grin at the receptionist. “One should be sufficient, but we may as well take two because this idiot kicks in his sleep.”

“O-of course, sir!” She blushes, and frantically processes their key cards.

“Why do you have to be so damn suggestive all the time,” Iwa-chan groans, as they stride out together.

“I mean, if _I_ had made the reservation, I would have made sure to book twin beds. You should really work on your attention to detail!” It’s a warm day. Tooru tugs his favorite cap down—mostly to keep the sun off his face, though it also obscures his disappointment. Anyway, his hair’s already messed up from when he fell asleep with Iwa-chan still smushed on his shoulder. “Stop thinking dirty thoughts, Iwa-chan,” he choruses, and before his best friend can reply, adds: “I’m hungry—let’s grab okonomiyaki?”

#

Hitting up the inn’s onsen after dinner wasn’t exactly a given, except they’d gotten stir-crazy during the afternoon (or depressed, after the Peace Park) and decided to run all the way to Mitaki-dera and back. Inevitably it turned into a race.

Tooru’s too tired to make coy remarks as he slips into the water, allowing the heat to ease the bunched up muscles in his body. Even as a pro athlete it’s hard to beat Iwa-chan, the cardio fiend, in a full-on sprinting match. Iwa-chan’s already in the onsen because he’s not meticulous with shampooing like Tooru is. He’s in the corner, leaning back on his arms, head tipped up and eyes closed like an old man. Seeing Iwa-chan so content makes Tooru’s shoulders go languid; he exhales as he crouches on the steps, unsure if he’s relieved or disappointed at how big the onsen turned out to be. It doesn’t help that Iwa-chan never stopped looking good shirtless, and they never developed a sense of shame around each other. Tooru wants to reminisce about how they used to take baths at each others’ places all the time, that he misses the sleepovers they had as kids, but silence is nice too. He yawns instead, grasps his right elbow with his left hand and stretches.

“It’s creepy for you to be holding back so much,” Iwa-chan says. Tooru doesn’t know at which point Iwa-chan opened his eyes; they’re looking at him through the mist, narrowed.

“Holding back? Me? I’d never. Not on the court, not with my love for all the ladies, and _definitely_ not with you.”

“Really? I can tell you want to say something and you’re not.”

“Iwa-chan, perhaps you have not considered this, but maybe your ability to read me has somewhat, ah, _diminished_ over the years?” He’s rewarded by a flat stare and “Who wants to read you anyway,” which he laughs off, because he was almost _honest._ A Bad Idea, mutual nakedness notwithstanding. Iwa-chan hasn’t figured out Tooru’s feelings, at least not the real nature of them. Or if he has, he hasn’t done _a single thing to make it okay_ , which is why Tooru suspects he hasn’t. Iwa-chan isn’t attracted to him, but he still cares for him in all kinds of excessive ways: rushing over that time Oikawa tweaked his knee in freshman year, driving back home with him every New Year’s, and once, for a terrible two-hour stretch, dissuading an ex from breaking into Tooru’s apartment and skinning him alive. Then there was the Kirby Plushie Incident they did not speak of. “Don’t worry, it’s not just you. I can never tell what you’re thinking these days.”

Iwa-chan goes “Hrm,” which is awfully contemplative as far as Iwa-chan goes. He looks almost _troubled_ at Tooru’s words. Yikes.

Tooru feels fired up, suddenly, like he’s got to steer this situation under control—a frantic wish that has him striding through the water, in great sloshing steps, until he’s looming over Iwa-chan, who frowns at him like he’s being inconvenient. Tooru cups Iwa-chan’s cheek with one palm. The contact makes him falter—shit. He hates how touching Iwa-chan becomes something _more_ when he least expects it, so he overcompensates with bravado, leaning close to whisper, “If you keep staring at me with that cute grumpy face, Iwaizumi-san, I may have to jump you.”

“Knock it off. We should be relaxing right now, I don’t want to start hitting you.”

“Are you sure _hitting me_ is what you’ll do?”

“…Want to find out?”

The water’s near-boiling, but Tooru actually feels a shiver run up his spine. Nevertheless, he retorts,“You’re kinda sexy when you’re violent, you know that?” Quipping until he gets bludgeoned is apparently his answer to every fight-or-flight scenario.

“I already told you to stop being suggestive.” Iwa-chan tugs Tooru’s hand away from his cheek, with more force than is strictly necessary.

Tooru pouts and splashes into the water next to Iwa-chan. “It’s no fun when you don’t even get excited.”

“Why should I get excited? Not everyone wants to sleep with you, dumbass.”

“I bet _you_ do, though?”

“Inviting you was such a terrible idea,” Iwa-chan groans, long-suffering. His face is red, at the temples and the bridge of his nose—it’s the heat, Tooru just _wants_ him to be blushing. He’s about to comment on it anyway because he wishes for an early death, when the door slides open and what looks to be a grandfather-grandson enter, the boy babbling nonstop about how he captured a rare Pokemon that day.

Tooru looks at his knees through the water, the good and bad nearly indistinguishable. He thinks about how every conversation lately feels like running away, how that’s not cool at all. He wants to say _read between the lines a little, idiot_ , but it’s _because_ he’s always forthright that Iwa-chan thinks everything he says is a joke.

If Tooru says _I love you_ it will be funny and meaningless.

There’s something safe about that, so he doesn’t try to fix it.

#

Okay, okay. Truth is. If Tooru confessed the only possible response would be _no_. Or worse, _I knew_.

Tooru’s tough, but not _that_ tough. He can’t handle the thought of Iwa-chan pitying him. He’d rather carry this crush to an early, stress-induced grave, which is apparently where he’s headed anyway, with how much his heart is trying to break while he lies in this too-small twin bed (note to self: never let Iwa-chan book lodgings again, he’s way too cheap), listening to his best friend grunt in his sleep. He wants to cross the room, crawl under the covers with him, ignore all the complaining about how they can’t possibly share such a cramped mattress. _Then move in with me and we’ll get a bigger one_. It’s a sweet fantasy—Tooru’s dead certain he’d be good at domestic life with Iwa-chan—and utterly impossible.

For starters, Iwa-chan is leaving. Also, Iwa-chan doesn’t love him.

#

Iwa-chan is grouchy the next morning, even if he was the one who wanted to take an early boat out. Tooru makes up for it by being extra sunny, to which Iwa-chan groans, “All right, what crime did you commit?”

“So mean, Iwa-chan. Can’t I be in a good mood for no reason?”

“There’s never _no reason_ with you,” but he’s too groggy to be properly mad. They’re leaning over the boat’s railing, wind cool on their faces as they sail for Miyajima. The boat’s full—the island will be busy—but Tooru doesn’t mind. He’s actually excited. He finishes eating the milk bread they picked up from the konbini, then laces his fingers under his chin and stares out at the water. He swore to himself upon waking that he’d be _good_ that day; he’d enjoy everything fully and try not to be Too Much, because this might be the last time they’re alone together like this.

Iwa-chan never really told him why he wanted Tooru along in the first place, but Tooru can guess: it’s a farewell gift, the graduation trip they postponed after high school, because Tooru had training camp and they wanted to save up for their apartments.

 _It would be cheaper if we just moved in together,_ Tooru said then, experimentally.

 _Living with you would be so shitty, and anyway, don’t you think we need our own space?_ Iwa-chan countered, oblivious to how that cracked Tooru’s heart to pieces. Tooru only stopped whining about it when he realized they were going to be in the same apartment complex, after all.

He wonders what goodbye will be like. Being physically apart from Iwa-chan is a weird concept because they’ve _never_ not been near each other. They crawled around together as babies; they learned how to write their own names, and then each other’s. They stopped speaking briefly—following That Incident—but even then Iwa-chan had been within reach, despite driving Tooru to hysteria with his silence.

In some corner of Tooru’s mind he believed it might never happen, that maybe no further assurances were needed after they knocked fists together that evening years ago, when Iwa-chan said _you’re a partner I’m proud to have._ Tooru had felt like they were laying down laws of the universe in that moment. But moments pass and circumstances change; Iwa-chan is still here, but he’ll be leaving soon, on some fancy photojournalism program that’ll take him to three different continents, where he’ll find friends and lovers and a life that barely includes Oikawa Tooru. Tooru needs to be okay with that. What kind of best friend isn’t? 

Given time, Tooru knows how to endure anything. He’s not a genius. He knows if he works at a problem long enough, consistently and deliberately, he’ll be able to handle it, or at least accept whatever he can’t change. That’s why he wants to be kind today, even if it already feels like goodbye, with sunlight reflecting on the water and Iwa-chan rolling his head around to fix his stiff neck. Tooru ignores the ever-present urge to palm the back of Iwa-chan’s head and just leans against his shoulder, secretly hoping, until Iwa-chan gets it and strokes his hair.

“Idiot-kawa,” Iwa-chan murmurs, as Itsukushima Shrine comes into view. Tooru remembers what their fourth grade teacher told them, years ago: that _this_ torii was a monument to things that stand the test of time, against tides of water that ebb and flow every day. Something that won’t leave. Something that will stay.

#

The shrine maiden finds Iwa-chan cute. Tooru doesn’t blame her; Iwa-chan’s wearing a black t-shirt with 勇 scrawled on it, somehow looking adorable _and_ cool. Plus his arms look gigantic because they’re crossed against his chest, since he’s being endearingly meticulous about which ema to get. Tooru flirts outrageously with the maiden to soothe his feelings, gratified by the blush on her cheeks when she rings up their purchase. Iwa-chan settled on two variants: one with just the torii, and another with the shrine behind it. He presents them to Tooru wordlessly.

“You’re treating me?”

Iwa-chan shrugs, but looks satisfied when Tooru picks the one that’s just the gate. Tooru’s not the only one being sweet today.

Tooru uncaps his marker and hesitates. He never gives shrine wishes much thought. He’d rather manipulate destiny, make dreams come true by his own power; but he’s too old now to ignore luck. He writes _I would like to be promoted into Nationals, keep improving my skills as a setter, and avoid all major injuries._ He draws a row of hearts and stars beneath it, mostly to buy time. He glances at Iwa-chan, who is frowning at his own wooden plaque. Tooru quickly writes _Plus I hope Iwa-chan finally finds love,_ sketching a little caricature of himself making the v-sign beside it. It looks harmless. If Iwa-chan asks, he can always say _well obviously you need divine intervention, as any girl who is attracted to you will immediately change their minds upon meeting me, the great Oikawa-san!_

Privately, he moves himself to near-tears. He would make _such a good boyfriend_. He deserves to be in the canon of the saints; he’s practically a bodhisattva.

“You done?” Iwa-chan is holding up his ema from its little white ribbon. Tooru nods. He wants to know, suddenly, what Iwa-chan wrote, but he’s too proud to ask, or—ugh—he’s afraid of the answer. It’s completely ridiculous because the entire island can read what they’ve written, but it feels like a secret he can’t share: a playground pinky-promise, an oath that will last forever, burnt in offering to the gods. To ask runs the risk of making it too real.

Iwa-chan hangs up his ema, picture-side forward. Tooru makes a great show of finding the perfect peg for his, before doing the exact same thing. They stand back and look at their handiwork.

“Remember when we had to split one? I thought that was definitely going to be bad luck.”

Tooru had spent all of his allowance on momiji manju and a really cool wooden carving of a ninja. It did not occur to him that he wouldn’t have enough to get his shrine wish, too. After yelling at him for being an excessive idiot Iwa-chan said _okay, fine, we can share mine, stop crying, you look so ugl_ y _!_ Iwa-chan had drawn a line down his ema, as if they could split a wish in half.

“It worked out, right? We had the same dream.”

 _(Be the best at volleyball,_ Tooru had written, carefully, ignoring the line in the middle.

 _Why are you writing on my side?! I—oh—yeah, that’s what I was gonna write,_ Iwa-chan had said, because even at ten he never had a problem being honest.)

Iwa-chan looks thoughtful. “Yeah. I guess we did.” A cluster of fellow tourists comes up near them, and Iwa-chan starts walking away.

Tooru is a little hurt that Iwa-chan isn’t even _slightly_ curious about what he wrote. In a flash of brattiness he flips over Iwa-chan’s ema, sees 心願成就 in big block letters because Iwa-chan is classic and boring like that. It takes Tooru a moment to see in much smaller writing _Oikawa—Nationals_ , beneath it.

 _You sentimental idiot_. After all this time Iwa-chan’s dreams are still _for_ him. It’s only Tooru who’s the bad friend, the one secretly hoping Iwa-chan will never find happiness if it’s not _with him_. Tooru wants to do better, wants to deserve this friendship. He simply doesn’t know how, when Iwa-chan keeps doing shit like this, tender and perfect and never asking for anything back. As if Tooru even has anything to offer.

#

They spend an hour lazily roving the beachfront. Iwa-chan pulls out his imposing camera from its ultra-secure bag. “Sorry, this might take a while.”

Tooru waves him off and buys korokke from a nearby stand. He takes a bunch of selfies, and when that gets boring (yes, even the Extremely Photogenic Oikawa gets bored of selfies sometimes), he wanders the souvenir shops, cheerfully responding to all the storekeepers beckoning him inside. He doesn’t know when he’ll be home next, but he buys a miniature torii for Takeru, and a set of maple-leaf-shaped chopstick holders for his parents. He’s already at the counter when he remembers to buy a set for Iwa-chan’s parents, too. The storekeeper, delighted by his compliments, gives him a free wooden spoon with _Victory_ on the handle. He’s batting eyelashes at her in thanks when Iwa-chan pokes his head in.

“Lunch?”

At the restaurant he orders a tempura bowl and Iwa-chan gets inari udon.

“You got some good photos?”

“Yeah. We’ll have to come back at sunset, though, it looks completely different then.”

Tooru crunches into a slice of deep-fried sweet potato. “If you’re really going to do photojournalism I guess that means you’ll be traveling a lot, huh.”

“It depends on where I can get hired.”

“You’re so stoic about becoming a nomad. Your wife will be so sad.”

Iwa-chan glances at him. “For such a playboy, you are extremely preoccupied with my love life.”

“Is it wrong that I worry for your future, Iwa-chan? You’re always gruff and snarling and you—will probably make her cry because you’re too nice to everyone and she won’t feel special. You will probably forget your anniversary, or buy her tickets to some violent action movie instead of the rom-com she _really_ wants to see. But don’t worry! I will give you my greatest tips on being a good lover: appropriate birthday gifts, what to wear to a date, whatever you want. You can have it all for free, with my best friend discount.”

“You can’t seriously be offering me relationship advice. You once _forgot_ your girlfriend’s birthday.”

“That was a bad era of my life, I admit. But I apologized.”

“To me, not to her.” Iwa-chan pinches the bridge of his nose like the memory still hurts him, which maybe it does. It sure as hell hurts Tooru. “I can take care of my own relationships, thanks.”

“Just don’t date anyone I wouldn’t approve of!”

“Why? Are you my mother, Oikawa?” Iwa-chan punctuates his grin by slurping a noodle. His sloppiness should not be so charming. Tooru eats the rest of his rice bowl in a rush, and has to choke it down with cold tea.

On the way to the Daisho-in hiking trail they pass a kid tentatively stretching her hand out to a deer. The deer noses over and butts her shoulders with its antlers. She abruptly bursts into tears. Tooru gets in front of her and crouches down, forming a barrier against the deer. He makes soft shushing sounds until she stops sobbing.

“Where are your parents?” Tooru asks.

“I don’t know,” she hiccups.

“Then we’ll stay right here and wait.” The deer get bored and wander off when it becomes apparent they have no food. Iwa-chan hefts his camera and clicks away, patient as always. The girl’s parents come by after a few minutes, morphing from frantic to appreciative; they bow four times to Tooru. The girl grins widely as her dad picks her up. “Bye, niisan!” she calls to Tooru, who waves at her with both hands.

“You really _are_ good with kids, aren’t you?”

“I’m good with everyone,” Tooru answers loftily. “Also, I got a lot of experience handling Takeru. But it’s so _awful_ , Iwa-chan, he’s getting so tall now. I hate it.”

“He’ll be in middle school next year, right? What position does he want to play?”

“Ace.”

“Oh really? That’s cool. I guess most kids would want to play ace.”

“I tried really hard to sell him on becoming a setter, but he wants to be an ace because he loves to spike, just like his Uncle Hajime.” Oikawa skips ahead two steps so he can turn back and wink.

“Too bad I stopped, huh?” There’s a touch of wistfulness in Iwa-chan's smile, a trace of regret in his eyes that vanishes only when he says, “You’ll have to send me photos when you attend one of his games.”

**ii. gravity pulls**

That bad era of Tooru’s life happened in the last semester of junior year, when he’d tripped because of a spill someone hadn’t cleaned up and hurt his ankle. It wasn’t his knee, thank god, but it still fucked up his jumps. He got two warnings from the doctor and a third from his coach before he stopped pushing it. His determination wasn’t masking the pain; it was only making him more pitiful, botching his performance.

“Go home, Oikawa,” his captain said, scrubbing his face. “You’re not fooling anyone. Don’t make it worse.”

Tooru felt humiliated and exhausted. He suffered the nervous panic he always did after an injury: _what if I can’t do this anymore? What if this doesn’t get to be my life?_ In high school he’d managed a breezy optimism on top of disappointments. (In high school he’d always had Iwa-chan by his side.) Growing up made that harder. He could still muster the same indolent smile, but internally he felt his options narrowing, a _now-or-never_ desperation suffusing his volleyball. It made him better; it made him more brittle.

His girlfriend showed up at his place to break things off. It was bad luck her birthday fell on the same day Tooru was barred from practice. He’d been trying to take his mind off the disappointment with nice sake, and was already pretty drunk when she stormed in. Despite his own theatricality, he never knew how to respond when others were dramatic. She lobbed a giant Kirby at his face—the one he’d won for her at the arcade on their second date—and screamed, “I don’t even like Pokemon!”

Tooru burst out laughing.

He deserved the slap, though he was mildly shocked to feel a trickle of blood on his cheek; she’d always been so careful with her nails, which were works of art, studded with little gems that twinkled whenever she carded her hands through his hair.

He gazed at her, trying to really _see_ her for maybe the first time. She was beautiful. He recalled that he liked how she smelled, all the time, a floral sweetness he couldn’t name. He liked that she was athletic, that she always dressed nice so that their couple photos were enviable (matching bomber jackets, matching silver bracelets). And she was smart: a Japanese Literature student, she could recite poetry and talk for hours about Akutagawa Ryunosuke, all of which he’d found so incredibly charming—she could _teach_ him things, broaden his world. She was always understanding of his busy schedule…and he’d never really liked her, wasn’t even sure his feelings edged _fondness_. Instead he’d been calculating: _this is a fine specimen of the female race. We’re an attractive pair. If we hurt each other it won’t be too painful._

She must have seen this in his eyes somehow, because she covered her mouth and burst into extreme, shuddering tears. “You’re such a freak!”

And Tooru thought, _maybe I am._

“I’m sorry,” he said, wanting so badly to mean it. “I’m no good for you. I’m an asshole.”

“Don’t say that like you can’t help it,” she sobbed. “You don’t even try.”

Tooru was lower than dirt. He probably shouldn’t accept it so easily. He just couldn’t seem to figure out _how_ to stop being like this. He imagined embracing her narrow, trembling shoulders; he recognized, at least, that would be infinitely more cruel. Instead, he stayed quiet until she cried herself out and left.

Iwa-chan showed up an hour later. He stood by the door, surveying the mess of Tooru’s apartment.

“You’re late,” Tooru said, upside down on the couch. “Were you on a date or something?”

Iwa-chan glowered. Tooru knew he had club activities, he only wanted to be difficult. Besides, Iwa-chan’s dating life was really none of his business (though he wanted it to be). Iwa-chan sighed and massaged his forehead. “You sent me a broken heart and a sweat emoji. It didn’t seem _that_ urgent.”

“She dumped me. She called me a freak. And I can’t play because my ankle’s—” He swallowed. Close proximity to Iwa-chan always made him more prone to tears.

“Okay, okay. Hey, don’t sit like that, it’s bad for your spine.” Iwa-chan went into crisis mode, scooping Tooru up and carrying him princess-style to the bathroom. He turned on the shower and stuck Tooru’s head under the nozzle after it had warmed up. When Tooru didn’t move, he carefully got a towel out and used it to wipe Tooru’s face. Iwa-chan left him sitting there on the edge of his tub, the ends of his hair dripping into the towel. “Cool off for a bit,” Iwa-chan said, re-entering the living room. Tooru heard him shuffling around, picking up trash, muttering angrily. “God, just how much did you drink?”

Tooru had a lot of good comebacks for that. _Be a little kinder, Iwa-chan, I just got dumped. If I said “too much” would you stay to look after me? Are you worried because you care, or because it’s habit?_

What he really wanted to say was _Come back here. I need you._ It wasn’t the alcohol; he could get drunk on the concern in Iwa-chan’s voice, the way his massive hands were so careful whenever he touched Tooru. The clarity of these feelings was startling. They rose up in Tooru like a wave, threatening to pull him under.

It was his silence, maybe, that had Iwa-chan stepping back into the bathroom. He crouched and looked up into Oikawa’s face. His frown deepened. “You’ve got a cut.”

Tooru braced himself for a question, but Iwa-chan simply stood and fished a band-aid from the medicine cabinet. Tooru thought how nice it was, that they knew each other’s living spaces so well. Iwa-chan’s fingers were gentle as he nudged Tooru’s chin up and smoothed the band-aid over his cheek. The softness in his touch made Tooru feel wild: bad ankle, bad breakup, bad feelings sending him over some terrible edge so that he leaned down without thinking and brushed his lips against Iwa-chan’s.

It was like a dam breaking; once the kiss started there was no way Tooru was going to stop. Iwa-chan parted his lips and managed to say “You—“ before Tooru licked into his mouth, equal parts hopeful and hopeless, hands bunched up in Iwa-chan’s collar. Tooru overbalanced on the edge of the tub and tipped onto the floor, dragging Iwa-chan with him, ignoring his yelp as they crashed onto the tiles. He felt hot everywhere, aflame with how much he still wanted _this_ , after three years of trying to prove to himself he didn’t. Iwa-chan flailed, trying to get a purchase on something; he settled for grabbing Tooru’s shoulders, which was a bad move because _touch_ riled Tooru up even more. He hadn’t maneuvered deliberately, but one of his knees were now splayed between both of Iwa-chan’s, nudging his crotch, desperate to make him hard too. Tooru’s hands slid under Iwa-chan’s shirt so that he was palming the expansive span of his best friend’s chest, simultaneously familiar and fascinatingly alien. A map he wanted to chart, one he’d been dreaming of forever. Iwa-chan’s skin was burning under his hands, muscles twitching under the caress of Tooru’s fingers; Tooru found a nipple and tweaked it instinctively, and Iwa-chan gasped, like someone breaking for air.

The sound of his own voice seemed to jolt Iwa-chan back into himself, from where he’d been dumbstruck, nearly pliant, beneath Tooru. He grabbed Tooru’s forearms, dragged them upward—Tooru whined—and used the confusion to flip them over so that he had Tooru pinned against the floor. _This is fine too_ , Tooru thought feverishly; this had happened in so many dreams, it was more memory than deja vu. His hips bucked, desperate for friction, and Iwa-chan hissed through his teeth. “Stop,” he choked. “You don’t want this. I won’t let you.”

Tooru’s mind went blank. “What?”

“I won’t let you,” Iwa-chan repeated. Thrown off-kilter, Tooru stopped moving and actually _looked up,_ finally seeing the tight expression on Iwa-chan’s face: eyes wide and furious, shoulders rising and falling with every strained exhalation. “I let you get away with so much but not _this_ , Shittykawa. Not this. _Fuck_.” He sounded ragged, so completely disappointed in him, that all the heat addling Tooru’s brain slithered away. He felt the cold tile against his back and the alcohol on his tongue; tears swelled in his eyes. He was numb all over, but mortifyingly enough could still feel his dick stiff in his pants.

 _I want this so badly,_ he didn’t say. _But not if you don’t._

Of course Iwa-chan didn’t. He had every reason not to.

“Sorry,” Tooru whispered. “Sorry, Iwa-chan. Sorry.”

They stayed that way for a few more agonizing heartbeats. After a shaky breath Iwa-chan got up, rubbing the back of his head where he’d hit it falling down. Tooru couldn’t look at him. Tooru couldn’t look at anything. He remained lying there, staring at the wooden flooring outside the door. At some point the Kirby plushie had rolled there. Its gigantic smiling face was upside down, a sorrowful witness to Tooru’s complete lack of self-control. _Fuck._

“Here,” Iwa-chan said finally, stretching out his hand. His voice was utterly cold in its rage. Tooru took it, pulled himself to a seating position. He kept his head bent, and didn’t raise it until Iwa-chan left.

#

Because Tooru didn’t know how to do anything except in extreme gestures, he camped outside of Iwa-chan’s door early the next morning. Not even his favorite Arctic Freeze Gatorade could remove his pulsing headache, or the leaden guilt that occupied his heart like a bad gremlin. Iwa-chan was late leaving his place, which was unheard of. What if he’d died in his sleep, or slipped and broken his neck in the bathroom? What if he’d been so fucking horrified at Toru’s sluttiness that he’d basically decided it was unsafe to live so near? Tooru had already typed out 119 and was hesitating over the call button when Iwa-chan opened his door, yawning, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Holy shit! Oikawa—what the hell?”

Oikawa knelt, touched his head to the floor, and shouted, “I am a complete asshole, I am a certifiable piece of trash, I am so incredibly sorry! Iwaizumi-san!”

“Oh god, you’re waking up the neighbors.” Iwa-chan dragged him indoors. He yanked Tooru to one of his kitchen chairs and roughly dropped him there, like he was scalding—then he grimaced and said, “Sorry, I forgot about your ankle.” He backed away to the couch, sank onto it, and glared. Tooru had seen that look directed at enemies on the court, playground bullies at recess, but almost never at him; even then, it was only when he was being self-destructive. This was _bad_.

“I’m sorry,” Tooru repeated. He knew it wouldn’t fix things but he wanted to _explain_ , even poorly, how much he knew he’d fucked up. How he knew he wasn’t wanted, and he didn’t expect Iwa-chan to return his feelings anyway. “I was drunk and took advantage of you—”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s _not_ fine, Iwa-chan, and I wouldn’t have done that—I never would have—”

“I know.”

“No you don’t, don’t be _understanding_ about this! I’m always pulling shit like this because I’m such a mess, god—I—I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.”

Iwa-chan hunched over, pressed the heel of his palm into his forehead, clearly trying to control himself.

“I’m sorry I kissed you!” Tooru blurted. “It was wrong and I won’t ever do it again!”

Iwa-chan breathed out, tension coiling around him. Tooru steeled himself to accept some degree of violence as his punishment. To his surprise all Iwa-chan did was stand and grab his bag, looping it over his shoulder. “I told you already, I get it. I _know_ all that. I didn’t want to lose our friendship because you were drunk and lonely. That’s not—that’s not what you are to me, so. Don’t _do that kind of thing_.” He crossed the room and pulled on his shoes at the genkan. He didn’t look back at Tooru as he said, “I forgive you, but I’m going to need some space, okay? Just…give me some time to be mad at you.”

Tooru was suddenly alone, still trying to figure out where they stood, what else he could say. He felt certain he’d fucked up explaining, but he didn’t know which part—maybe all of it. His mind had snagged on _that’s not what you are to me_. It hurt, even if he already knew.

#

Iwa-chan stopped speaking to him.

Tooru catalogued everything he missed: being able to send Iwa-chan obnoxious photos of his day, mysterious emoji strings, or texts asking after his parents. They often picked up groceries for each other or cooked dinner for two, out of convenience; Tooru kept making too much rice on reflex and cursing himself as he packed it into tupperware. It sucked that they couldn’t help running into each other in the elevator or at the mailbox. Tooru would bite his lip, offering a little grin to make peace. In response, Iwa-chan would frown slightly and look at some point just beyond Tooru’s head.

It hurt like a bitch, like an ice blade slick between his ribcage. It was strange to realize he’d actually crossed a line. He’d thought their friendship had been line-free. It made him recall that rooftop argument from high school— _you don’t seem to have a limit._ Iwa-chan hadn’t denied it, yet here it was. Tooru kept the weight off his ankle and let himself be comforted by the cute girl in Sociology who insisted on bringing him hot yuzu tea every lunchtime. He dutifully kept away from Iwa-chan, trying to estimate when enough was enough. Iwa-chan _did_ say he still wanted to be friends. Didn’t he?

Tooru thought he knew patience—he’d sunk his entire life into volleyball knowing it would take time to be on top (pun, amazingly, unintended). He knew what it was like to nurse ambiguous feelings that would never be returned. But somehow, not being able to talk to Iwa-chan, to see his eyes close in laughter or hear that old familiar voice say _Hey, Asskawa—_ that was on an entirely new plane of unbearable.

Tooru imagined this was what it would be like if they’d been strangers after all. There’d be some surly stud two doors down, who went for runs in the morning and looked unreasonably dashing in grubby hoodies. Tooru would smile at him out of politeness, but he wouldn’t say anything because he was secretly shy and didn’t like boys anyway. For his neighborly efforts he’d be promptly ignored. There would be no sunlit memories of lying in the grass together talking about nothing, no ghost impressions of high-fives after an amazing pass. No falling asleep together after a day spent chasing dragonflies, no long drives back home set to _Sexy Times Vol II_ (a playlist Hanamaki had put together as a joke, which was actually pretty legit, in Tooru’s opinion) _._ Eventually the novelty would wear off, and they’d move through the world never knowing each other.

Three weeks into this Mom called.

“How’s Hajime?” Her voice crackled slightly, the way it always did when she called from her bedroom in Miyagi. Tooru could imagine her, folding clothes on the bed or noodling away at a watercolor painting. His throat went tight with homesickness. _I’m waging a silent war with Iwa-chan! He sucks!_ Tooru did not say. This was why he preferred texting: it let him bide his time, plot out conversations and comebacks far in advance. Phone calls were like calling shots in the middle of a play. Off the court (and to his own _mother)_ he simply did not have the calculating brainpower.

It took an extremely telling six seconds before he said: “Totally fine? It’s not like we see each other all that often anymore.”

“He’s your _neighbor_ ,” Mom said, disappointed like she always was when he wasn’t being a good friend to Iwa-chan. A few days later, because she could never leave this kind of thing alone and Tooru _totally_ got his bullheaded-ness from her, a package of homemade teacakes arrived, with a note telling him to give half to Hajime. _Watch your sugar intake, love_ , she appended. Like that would make him any less suspicious.

Tooru could have left the tasteful box outside Iwa-chan’s door, but that would defeat its purpose. He spent a day alternately hating and pitying himself. At five in the afternoon he decided to end his agony, checked his face in the mirror, decided his face was absolutely not going to help the situation unless it served as Iwa-chan’s punching bag, and crossed the hall. The light was on in Iwa-chan’s room. He thought about pushing the buzzer, then pulled out his phone instead, so Iwa-chan could pretend to not be home if he so desired. (In consolation, Tooru could hate him more.)

 _Mom sent me some snacks for you_ :’>

_I’m outside_

He waited.

_It’s okay if you still hate me_

_But I can’t eat all these carbs_

He could hear, faintly, the kettle going off, a shrill whine slowly fading to silence. _Well_ , he thought, and turned away. He deserved it, but that didn’t mean he was going to take this treatment like a champ. Tooru had a fucking limit, too.

The door clicked open.

Tooru froze.

“What snacks?” It had only been a few weeks, but it felt like a lifetime ago. It pained him to hear the thin strain in that voice, to notice the way it instantly put his body at ease, like he’d been holding his breath too long. Still, Tooru couldn’t bring himself to turn. He didn’t trust his body not to do something stupid again. It was a war not to react on instinct to Iwa-chan, to fold against him and _take and take and take_ , which had always been the easiest thing in the world.

“Ah, umm. Teacakes.” He stuck his arm out like an idiot, stayed facing away. The weight of the box lifted from his fingers; he flexed them, trying to shake out the tension. The door clicked closed. Tooru exhaled. He _had_ been holding his breath. “You could’ve said thanks, asshole,” he whispered. He was grumpy to find tears crowding his eyes; he thought he’d cried himself out days ago.

“Thanks,” Iwa-chan said.

Tooru whirled around.

Iwa-chan was rubbing his neck, gazing at some point beyond Tooru’s head. “Hey.”

“I-Iwa-chan?”

“I told you I needed space, dumbass.”

“Right,” Tooru said. “Yeah,” but he couldn’t stop the tears streaming down his face, snot slipping from his nose, his shoulders going rigid from the effort of trying not to reach out for an embrace. “Okay, well—yeah. Enjoy the cakes.” He swallowed to steady himself, and blinked. They kept looking at each other. “BYE,” He said loudly, when it was clear Iwa-chan wasn’t going to break his gaze first, and he saw—an expression—cross Iwa-chan’s face, that looked about as broken as he felt.

“Fuck,” Iwa-chan said. “Why can’t I stay mad at you?”

Without warning he bundled Tooru into an embrace, a steadying warmth that lit him up from head to toe. It was too tight to be anything but reflex. Tooru leaned into that solidity, dropped his face down into Iwa-chan’s shoulder and sobbed wordlessly. That it was sobbing and not crying made him deeply ashamed, but he felt Iwa-chan’s fists tighten into his sweater and decided it was okay to be fragile like this, broken open like a runny egg. _I missed you_ got stuck in his throat. It was weak, he knew, to be reduced to _this_ just because his friend ignored him for a few weeks, but it had clarified for Tooru that on some subdermal, sub _conscious_ level, he needed Iwaizumi Hajime to survive. Only that wouldn’t really be possible, would it? He had a year and a half of this left. Then they’d have to figure out life post-college, maybe in separate cities, certainly with separate lives. Tooru might become a stronger person who could deal with this, or maybe he’d implode spectacularly. He wasn’t sure.

“You are banned from alcohol,” Iwa-chan said later, after they’d eaten half the teacakes and some of Iwa-chan’s leftover curry between them. They were sprawled on his couch. Tooru didn’t miss the way Iwa-chan kept meaningfully to one side, when normally they’d be next to each other, or he’d have his head in Iwa-chan’s lap (old habits died hard). “And you better not have another girlfriend until you’ve properly learned to look after them.”

“I want to,” Tooru muttered into his knees, pulled up against his chest so he could hide his face if needed. His face was puffy from tears. _I keep wanting to, and it’s hard because they’re not you._ Balancing his chin on his knees so he could speak more clearly, he said, “I’ll do whatever you ask, Iwa-chan, just don’t...” _Don’t shut me out again. Don’t pretend like I’m not there, or else there won’t be anything to pin me in place._

“Yeah, okay.” Iwa-chan appeared to notice how he was struggling, and bumped his shoulder awkwardly. “Oikawa. You know we’re college juniors, right?”

“So?”

“So I’m just saying, you’ve got to think about your future a little. I don’t know. Take care of your knee. Mind who you’re dating. It’ll be better for your team, and your…career.”

“You’re not my _manager_ ,” Tooru shot back, trying not to sound nervous. It seemed like Iwa-chan was saying Tooru couldn’t rely on him anymore, which was true, but not yet. _Not yet._ “Besides, Iwa-chan, it’s not like I’m like this with everyone. Sometimes it’s only you who sees me.” _For the wreck that I am,_ he didn’t add.

Iwa-chan ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I don’t want you to change who you are, okay? You can be yourself around me. I want you to. But you need to think ahead more, and for god’s sake practice some self control. There are assholes who could take advantage of you, and people who won’t be so forgiving.” He grimaces. “Also, if you jump me like that again I _will_ punch you, and I won’t be sorry about it.”

So that _was_ part of it. Cool. Tooru could manage that. He could restrain himself. It didn’t matter that Iwa-chan hated kissing him so much he’d completely avoided him, or that Tooru still winced when he remembered Iwa-chan had been completely pokerfaced while Tooru had been grinding underneath him. As long as they went back to normal, everything was fine. Maybe Tooru couldn’t forget, but he sure as hell could pretend to.

“If I do it again,” he said cheerfully, “I”ll meet your fist halfway.”

#

Things didn’t go completely back to normal, but they did get better until it was close enough—until Tooru could touch Iwa-chan without Iwa-chan flinching, and Iwa-chan could punch Tooru on the arm, without looking nervous. It was okay that things were different, because they were different people now. Tooru was keenly aware of the coming fork in the road, that the next steps they’d take would be away from each other. He’d also finally reached a kind of resolution: they’d be forever a part of each other’s lives, but what he wanted was _not_ what Iwa-chan wanted, and that was also okay.

All of senior year Tooru tried to embrace what _was_ still his: Iwa-chan’s patience, his kind attention when it mattered, the way he laughed at Tooru’s outrageous statements and said, “You are the worst of humanity, Trashkawa,” pushing his knuckles into Tooru’s cheek. Tooru longed to take this fist and hold it, smile against it deviously, murmur _I’m still the one you want beside you when you’re looking out at the world, right?_ But he didn’t dare.

Tooru didn’t get another girlfriend.

**iii. low tide**

They start their hike at Daisho-in, mostly because Tooru has not stopped craving soft ice cream all day. He gets a mixed matcha-vanilla swirl from a stand somewhat close to the gate, and offers Iwa-chan the first bite. Iwa-chan shamelessly munches a full third of it (Tooru, pouting: “Why do you never get brain freeze?!”), then takes out his camera again.

Tooru wanders off to climb the long staircase in the middle of the temple, running his hands aggressively over the prayer wheels so that they turn. It’s meditative, these prayers that spin against his fingers. He likes it: whatever he’s hoping for can be a secret he keeps to himself. He pokes his head into Henjokutsu Cave, breathing in the incense, then wanders over to the main hall to listen to an elderly couple chant sutras. Their voices blend, perfectly in sync. Maybe it’s the cadence of the sutras, or maybe you learned to breathe together like that, after a lifetime with each other. He’s briefly jealous, and wry with it.

“I don’t know why Itsukushima gets all the attention, this place is amazing.” Iwa-chan comes up behind him, wiping sweat off his forehead. Tooru holds out the last of his soft ice; Iwa-chan says “Thanks” and eats up the butt of the ice cream cone.

“I love these groovy little dudes.” Tooru gestures to the jizo. Some of them are inventively posed, waving and dancing and tumbling. Their randomness makes Tooru wonder what career he might have had, without volleyball: salaryman? flight attendant? high school professor? probably model, actually, considering how good-looking he is. He considers these alternate universe Toorus, living undoubtedly fabulous lives, then decides he still has the coolest job of all.

Except. In this universe, Iwa-chan stopped playing volleyball. It felt like a betrayal initially. It hurt when they went to separate colleges, though they still did practice matches and sometimes even trained together. It hurt when Iwa-chan told him, after freshman year, that he didn’t intend to go pro. But it was when Iwa-chan actually quit his team that Tooru felt something crumble, felt anxiety seize his chest. Iwa-chan had been gruff at his reaction (tears, obviously).

“This doesn’t mean I’m quitting _you_ , Shittykawa, I just don’t have time to balance volleyball with everything else right now!” It was a strange way of phrasing it, but it had calmed Tooru down enough for him to say “ _Fine,”_ which meant _I know_ , _this doesn’t surprise me. But let me be a little sad, because this was our world together_.

And it _has_ been fine, strangely enough. Because Iwa-chan is still around.

He knows Iwa-chan misses the game. That it wasn’t an easy decision. He also knows that Iwa-chan’s decisiveness is like gravity: once set in its course, it won’t be changed. Tooru is amazed and intimidated by that kind of certainty.

He looks at Iwa-chan now, kneeling in front of a jizo that someone has playfully decorated with a pair of sunglasses. He can make out one grumpy eyebrow, furrowed in concentration. Tooru smiles and clutches the five-yen coin in his palm, thinks about the nice girlfriend he hopes the gods grant Iwa-chan. His best friend since eternity deserves to be happy, even if it’s not with him. _Someone_ needs to take care of him, to cherish him, the way Tooru’s been quietly trying to all this time. He deposits the five-yen coin into the outstretched palm of the statue closest to him, and feels like he’s leaving something precious in its hands.

There’s really only one person in the world that can make Tooru slightly unselfish: a dope who is way too intense about capturing the perfect shot of a little stone idol. His hair is too soft, his smile too guileless, his voice too much a part of Tooru’s days.

Tooru will miss all this when it is gone, and be glad he cared enough to miss it.

“I was thinking,” he says, strolling over to Iwa-chan, casting an unhelpful shadow over the statue. “Maybe we should take the cable car up.”

Iwa-chan lowers his camera and stands, stretching out his back. “Why? Is your knee hurting?”

“No, I’m worried that _you_ might get tired, since you quit sports—” Here Iwa-chan reaches out to cuff his neck with an arm, and rams his fist into Tooru’s head. Tooru admits he was totally asking for it.

#

There’d been a moment, towards the end of their first year at university, when Tooru nearly said it. They’d been driving back from a weekend home, on a long stretch of road, hearts both full and broken from visiting Miyagi. It had been strange to come home, to know that was no longer where they belonged; it had been stranger still to recognize that while in some ways it would always _be_ home, they were now searching for their own places in the world. Tooru was struck by how he had almost no memories of home that didn’t contain Iwa-chan: that corner of the yard, that tree in the nearby forest, the video game cartridge he found under his bed while looking for an old jersey. Their moms had even been having tea together at the Iwaizumi household when they arrived.

The past year hadn’t been like that. In separate schools, on separate teams, there had been long stretches of time when Iwa-chan simply wasn’t in the picture. He lived only two doors down, but Tooru felt that distance like a chasm.

It didn’t seem fair to Tooru that he felt that gap so keenly and Iwa-chan seemed, well, about the same way he always did. Mildly annoyed and thoughtful; a little sleepy as he flicked through songs on the playlist Tooru had cobbled together for the ride back: lots of Ayumi Hamasaki and some stuff from the US Top 40, partly so that they stayed awake and partly because it made Iwa-chan grimace. _You’re always leaving me,_ Tooru thought, eyeing his best friend’s expression. _Even when you’re right here. I don’t have a way to hold you close anymore, except through obligation maybe, because our mothers want us to stay friends._

Not speaking made Tooru extra contemplative. It made him spin dangerous monologues in his head. _Hey, Iwa-chan—what if I told you I want you to be home, to be the place I keep coming back to, where I can stretch out and be myself and leave the rest of the world outside my door? What if I told you I want you to be my safe house, my bed and blanket, my cup of brewed coffee in the morning and hot tea after dinner?_

_What if I told you I loved you, how these feelings have been here since forever, and I don’t know what to do with them anymore? I’m so tired of carrying them. I want to lay them down at your feet, apologize, and be done with it._

Tooru tried mouthing the words, like an idiot. _I like you._ They felt overly familiar, he realized—he’d been saying them so casually, so easily, their whole lives. He’d said it when Iwa-chan plopped a fat stag beetle into his hand at kindergarten; when they’d first managed a successful combo, a few weeks after playing volleyball together; when he’d been awarded best setter and Iwa-chan helped him pick out a frame for it, meticulously comparing wooden frames in the art store, which was the first time Tooru realized Iwa-chan had good design sense. _I like you, Iwa-chan, you’re the best._ When had he stopped saying it? Probably when he’d realized his own feelings, the danger inherent in them. When he started to _mean_ it.

“Are you placing a curse on me?”

There’d been a cracked grin on Iwa-chan’s face as he said this. Tooru was seized with the terrible certainty that Iwa-chan could lip read; he channeled extreme willpower not to blush, and said loftily, “I’m just practicing what I’m going to tell my girlfriend the next time I see her. It’s not like you could understand that, since you’re so innocent and pure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you know nothing of love, I-wa-chan.”

Iwa-chan shrugged. “I’m going on a third date with someone next weekend.”

“You _what?!_ ”

“I’m going on a date. If I end up liking them, maybe we could go on a double-date with you and your girlfriend?”

“Absolutely not. You would extremely cramp my style.” Tooru resisted the urge to put a hand against his chest, shocked at the physical squeeze of jealousy. The image of Iwa-chan with a cute university student was viscerally painful. She probably had long black hair and nice mascara and Tooru already resented her for any texts she’d ever sent Iwa-chan, especially any with emojis. She probably made him laugh, and loved touching his biceps. He wanted to ask _what’s she like_. He also wanted to open the car door, roll down the hill, and die. Maybe then Iwa-chan would shed a tear for him.

“Fine.” Iwa-chan glanced at him, sidelong. “It was just a thought.”

Tooru hoped his expression was neutral. He was such an idiot. He looked out the window, at the rolling green fields and little houses of the suburbs. Everything felt inconsequential—you could blink and miss something present, something that had always been there but mattered little except to those who knew it, who understood what it meant. Iwa-chan going on dates made sense, except for the part where it didn’t, at least not to Tooru’s dumbass heart, trying to immolate in his chest. He tried to focus on Taylor Swift singing about ex-lovers and raged at himself for the thousandth time that nothing good would come of feeling this way, and the sooner his heart caught up with his far more reasonable brain, life would improve a hundredfold.

After a moment, he felt a light pressure on his shoulder. He turned his head. Iwa-chan was looking fixedly at the highway.

“It was nice to go home, huh,” Iwa-chan said.

Tooru thought about all the ways that was true and wasn’t. It was a long drive back to Tokyo.

#

They’re sweaty when they reach the top of Mt. Misen. While Tooru is a professional athlete and Iwa-chan still works out like a gorilla, the rise in altitude and late spring afternoon heat still gets to them. Miraculously they’ve hit a break in the flow of tourists; there’s only a cluster of fit aunties sharing a tumbler of hot tea, sitting peacefully on the rock with the best view. They wander to the opposite side of the lookout. Tooru averts his gaze from Iwa-chan wiping his face with the collar of his shirt, so that his abs come into view without warning; then he looks back, determined not to be affected. (He fails.) To distract himself, he walks over to the railing that fences off the rest of the observatory.

The view from the summit is pretty, but Tooru expected that. He _doesn’t_ expect the way his heart trills in his chest, seeing the island spread out beneath them, grass edging away to pale yellow sand, sea stretching as far as the eye can see. Blue sky and dark blue water, clouds feathering out like strokes of paint on some god’s delicate canvas. He hated the sun on the last few minutes of the climb, the way it got in his eyes and made sweat pool on his lower back, beneath his daypack, but now all he can think is what a gorgeous day it is. He shades his eyes to see better and makes a sound like “Huh,” for he is always eloquent.

“Nice, right?” Iwa-chan hasn’t lifted his camera yet; he’s soaking in the view, a rare smile wide on his face.

Tooru leans over to catch Iwa-chan’s eye and splays two hands beneath his chin, blinking hugely. “Don’t I suit this view? We’re both gorgeous.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Iwa-chan looks like he might say something else, and Tooru nearly cries _Don’t!_ —whatever it is, his heart’s not ready. But the moment passes, and Iwa-chan just thumps down on a rock, rifling through his backpack for his water bottle. He takes a long gulp as Tooru sits next to him, ignoring the burn in his calves.

Tooru doesn’t want to say anything, but he’s also tired of being a coward.

“You know, I’m having a lovely time on this date, Iwa-chan, but I’m still not going to forgive you for leaving me.”

“I know,” Iwa-chan says, unexpectedly. Tooru bites his lip and waits. “I get that you’re upset and that nothing I do will really make it better. But we’re leaving each other, right? I heard there’s a high chance you’re getting a team transfer. It’s not like you’ll be staying in Tokyo after I leave.”

Ah. There it is. After all his fretting about how to break the news, too. Tooru reaches for the water bottle, which Iwa-chan hands over. It’s the nice metal kind that keeps the water cool. He takes a sip, then pours a little into his hand and splashes it onto his face. “Who told you?”

“Makki. At karaoke.” Iwa-chan twists around to look at him because he’s brave like that. The smile hasn’t left his face; but now it looks a little wistful—sad, even as it is proud. “The Thunders is a great team. You’re going to be such an amazing setter for them. Congratulations.”

“I was kinda bummed you picked Hiroshima,” Tooru admits, closing his eyes to combat a predictable desire to cry. “Because I’ll probably be moving here in a month or two. And don’t get _too_ excited—I’m not on the starting line-up, not yet. Though I do intend to change that pretty quickly.” He presses his lips together, to keep from sharing an onslaught of truths: _I always thought I’d be the one leaving you. I can’t believe you beat me to it._ _I wanted to ask you to come with me, but I don’t know what that would even mean, or any reason why you should say yes._ All he manages is, “You should visit me, if you ever come back to Japan.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen—of course I’ll come back. This is home.” Iwa-chan is looking out at the water again, thank god. His gaze is really too intense sometimes. “But it would be nice to see sights like this, all over the world.”

“You don’t plan on moving abroad permanently?”

“Idiot,” Iwa-chan mutters. “I keep telling you, the program’s just a year.”

“A year’s too long,” Tooru finally admits. He knows it isn’t true even as he says it. Except for the part where it _is_ true, to him.

“Is it, Oikawa?” The question is weightier than Tooru expects. It feels like Iwa-chan’s asking him something else, but he’s too afraid to clarify, or even to say _yes_ , because he’s afraid Iwa-chan won’t understand what he means.

 _Maybe it isn’t for you_. Tooru attempts to stay bright. “We’ve just never been apart that long!”

“Yeah. But maybe it’s time we started learning how.” Iwa-chan’s statement isn’t cruel. It still hits Tooru like a hammer to the ribcage: he’s got no armor, he never does with Iwa-chan. It hurts because it’s true. Maybe he should leave it at that. Iwa-chan has no intention of finding any bridges along their separate paths, it’s all a part of growing up—but then Iwa-chan says, “Oikawa— _it’s happening_. What you’ve always worked for and dreamed of. Everything’s going to change, with your new team, and nationals. You should enjoy all of it, and not worry about anything.” He smiles, fiercely, and Tooru’s heart gets banged up again. Iwa-chan looks so _proud_ of him, of what he’s managed. All this time Tooru has played for his own satisfaction, but to see that look on Iwa-chan’s face—it’s a reward he’s never thought to earn, but some part of him has been chasing it forever.

To hide his embarrassment he says, “You’re the one with a scholarship to study abroad for a year.”

“They didn’t have a comparable program in Japan.”

“When you’re overly humble you make me look bad.”

They sit in silence for a while. Tooru is never comfortable with silence unless it’s with Iwa-chan, or he’s on the bench in the middle of a game, lost in his music, gearing up for the next serve. Chatter prevents him from introspection, which tends to end badly; but next to Iwa-chan, he can always breathe easy and think about nothing, with that hulking steadiness beside him and the unspoken surety of all their years together.

“Why’d you really bring me?” He asks. That’s not the question he really wants to ask—not the only question anyway. But he can’t be any more specific.

Iwa-chan closes his eyes and tilts his face up. He looks unfairly good in the sunlight, even if his nose is starting to peel. He stays quiet. Tooru waits, because though it might take a while Iwa-chan always answers him. For one wild moment Tooru thinks that Iwa-chan might say _I’m getting married_ , which would explode the universe, but as far as he knows Iwa-chan hasn’t had a serious girlfriend since sophomore year. Unless he has stopped talking about girlfriends to Tooru, which would be warranted and devastating.

“I don’t know,” Iwa-chan says, finally. He sounds tired. “I guess I wanted to spend some time with you, before I go.” His eyes are open, but he’s still looking up. Tooru feels out of his depth, maneuvering something he doesn’t know how to control: it’s always been this way with Iwaizumi Hajime, a snaking tide that drags him under, over and over, until it’s all he can do to stay close to the surface, to forget what he’s feeling and remember what he’s risking. “Do I need a reason to want to bring you, Oikawa?”

He’s gentle again, and Tooru feels the strength of that wave breaking over him: he’ll take this, and be happy with it. For the first time he thinks that maybe Iwa-chan _has_ known all along, has treated his feelings with deference and delicacy and tried to say _I’m here, maybe not in the way you want me to be, but I’m here._ It’s almost like they’re breaking up, even if there’s _nothing_ to break up. Of course Iwa-chan will do things as gallantly as possible. Tooru knows how to be gracious in return. This is what it means to be adult friends. This is how it feels to accept you won’t ever be loved back.

“Not really,” Tooru answers. “You asked and I came, right?”

“Yeah. You did.”

When Tooru leans his head on Iwa-chan’s shoulder, tentatively, Iwa-chan doesn’t move away.

That’s that, then. Tooru waits a few beats, then says, light as air: “Put on some sunblock. Your nose is peeling.”

#

It’s as if something has broken between them, in a good way: a shield dissolved, a fortress wall crumbled. During the hike down, they talk about their plans, more freely and openly than they have in the last few months. Iwa-chan will be in South America, North America, Europe (Italy then London), and if a certain additional scholarship pans out he’ll have two weeks in South Africa (“So fancy!”). Tooru talks about the extremely good-natured captain of the JT Thunders, and how the vice-captain always literally kicks him in the ass, “Which kinda reminds me of someone—ow—don’t shove so hard, I might fall off the mountain!”

They bring up memories, too: of their best games, of Spring Nationals, of that time in college when Iwa-chan’s shower broke and he had to borrow Tooru’s for four days, how Tooru had flicked off the light each time for exactly fifteen seconds to piss Iwa-chan off and he’d said not a _word_. They talk more about Takeru, and about their parents; Auntie Iwaizumi chewed out Iwa-chan for accepting the program _before_ he told her, so Tooru’s sulking and anger paled in comparison. Tooru describes the current state of the V-League, how he saw Kageyama at the last practice match, how Iwa-chan should be proud of him for keeping his teasing to the barest minimum (only “my cute kouhai” and a stuck-out tongue). How national selections is all anyone can think of, even when they’re trying not to talk about it.

“I bet you’re nervous,” Iwa-chan, who can be a demon sometimes, states blandly.

“I’m a total wreck,” Tooru admits. It feels good to admit it. “I think I’ll make it anyway.”

“You will,” Iwa-chan says. “I’ve been praying for it all day.”

Tooru gapes, offended by this sweetness. Iwa-chan smirks. “I’m gonna get us drinks. Wait here a sec.”

He leaves Tooru at the edge of the wall overlooking Itsukushima’s torii. The tide has receded, allowing people to wander freely in the sand, to walk right up to the brilliant red gate, exclaiming at its beauty. Iwa-chan knows Tooru wouldn’t just stand around waiting—that’s never been his style—so he vaults the wall and hops down, walking over, avoiding wet patches of sand. The vermillion gate looks less immaculate up close. It’s scratched, faded in parts—but somehow that only adds to how lovely it is. It’s astounding to touch it, when only hours ago he’d have to swim to get this close. There are barnacles crusted all over the bottom, hidden when the water was at high tide. Tooru likes that imperfection, the truth of what it is.

He gets lost in the moment, so he hardly notices when Iwa-chan rucks up near him—finding him effortlessly, like always. “I read somewhere that the gate stands on its own weight. There are breakwaters on the main pillars, little pines driven around each one to strengthen gravity’s hold.” They look up at the gate together. “Here.” He holds out a can of apple chu-hi and a fried maple manju. Tooru takes them, grins mischievously.

“You’re letting me drink?”

“Just this once.”

Tooru pops the can open, takes a sip. _Why do you always know what to get me or what to say? Why did you have to be so perfect for me?_

“It’s kinda like our friendship, then,” he offers.

Iwa-chan tilts his head. “Which part?”

“The pillars and the gate. The weight. Something that never changes, no matter what happens.” Tooru winks. “I sound like a poet, don’t I?”

“You’re scaring me,” Iwa-chan sighs. “With the poetry and all. You must be really sad I’m leaving.” They share the manju and finish their drinks in relative silence, tucking the trash away into Iwa’s daypack. Despite all the tourists the moment feels private, somehow—like there’s nothing else in the world but this surreal landscape, the sand beneath their feet, each other.

Iwa-chan lifts his camera and starts taking photos again, the sun starting to sink in the horizon, lighting up the torii from behind so that it blazes. Tooru stands next to Iwa-chan to see what he sees, take in his view. He’s surprised when Iwa-chan swings his camera over and clicks, the lens too near, the shutter swirling closed then open.

Tooru wets lips that are suddenly dry.

“The sunset’s that way.”

“I know.”

“Have you finally come to appreciate my beauty, Iwa-chan?”

“Shut up for a moment.” Iwa-chan lowers his camera, reaches out—Tooru has the urge to scramble backwards, but he forces himself to stay still, as Iwa-chan’s fingers brush against his jaw, unbearably tender. His expression is grim. He curls his fingers around the back of Tooru’s neck and tips Tooru’s head down, so that every part of Tooru prickles, like he’s sixteen again and fighting this feeling for the first time, trying not to drown. The scrutiny is terrible. Tooru isn’t sure what Iwa-chan’s trying to do, what he’s searching for with that pinpoint focus. “Dammit,” Iwa-chan says, so quiet it’s nearly a whisper; then he leans in, up, and kisses Tooru.

They both grew a few extra inches after high school, but Iwa-chan never closed the gap. Tooru always considered the height difference between them as something of a trump card; whatever his faults, he _is_ taller than Iwa-chan, so it’s somehow within his rights to keep teasing him and calling him that pet name.

Tooru never factored it into his daydreams of kissing his best friend, so it startles him, this arrangement of their faces. His mind goes blank. It’s completely different than that time in the bathroom, because he is sober and cautious and mortifyingly _shy_ about it. He’s kissing Iwa-chan, or rather, Iwa-chan’s kissing him, the sand tilting under his feet so that any moment now he will sink into the middle of the earth out of delirium, because there’s no way this is real. His best friend tastes of chu-hi (grape?) and sweat and quiet resignation. Tooru’s only distantly aware that they’re in public.

It’s over too soon. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Iwa-chan pulls back, then smiles crookedly, completely undoing whatever thoughts Tooru’s forming. “Sorry,” Iwa-chan says, which is _so wrong_ Tooru simply stares at him in horror. “Sorry—I know it’s not like that. I got caught up in—the moment, or something.” He clears his throat. Tooru has never heard Iwa-chan fumble sentences like that, except when he’s in real distress. “Come on, let’s head for the boat.”

He’s looking away, which is much more Tooru’s style than Iwa-chan’s. The sun keeps sinking, tinting their skin a soft orange, and Tooru can’t tell if Iwa-chan is flushed from embarrassment or regret, or—he sees a spasm of pain cross Iwa-chan’s mouth and thinks _oh. Fuck. Have I been reading it wrong this whole time?_

Tooru wants to say something. To fix this, or demand an explanation, because his mind is spinning in a thousand different directions; but when he opens his mouth, nothing falls out. If Iwa-chan wasn’t obviously running away, he would have said it was a miracle.

#

They’re quiet on the boat ride back, as they take the tram to the hotel, even shuffling down the hallway to their room. Tooru keeps trying and failing to collect his thoughts. Nothing he comes up with makes sense. Nothing about him and Iwaizumi Hajime has ever made sense, but that kiss has been the most confounding thing thus far. He knows he’ll still mess this up, but he’s too bothered and hopeful now to stay silent. They get to their room; Iwa-chan starts gathering things like he’s about to flee to the shower, so Tooru blurts: “When you said it’s not like that—what’s it like, then?” His throat is dry and his face is burning. He sounds accusing.

To his credit, Iwa-chan stops rummaging through his clothes. The set of his shoulders changes: he’s steeling himself, gearing up for whatever’s about to happen.

“We’re friends.”

“Only friends?”

“We’re best friends.” Iwa-chan sounds a little angry. Good. Tooru wants him angry; Tooru feels like fighting; Tooru is starting to _get an idea_ and if he’s right, it’s going to be awful.

“So why’d you kiss me?”

“I already regret it. It was stupid. You don’t—”

“Why do you keep assuming you know what I want?”

Iwa-chan digs the heel of his palm into his eyes, that old familiar habit. “What do you want me to say? You’ve had ten girlfriends since high school. You bragged to me when you first—slept with one of them. You called me every time you got your heart broken.”

The truth cuts across Tooru like a slap to the face. He _had_ done all of those things. But he thought it only affected Iwa-chan because—because he’d been—what, doing reputation management for him? Worrying over him? Fuck.

“I know you’re not—you don’t like men.” Iwa-chan’s voice is caught between broken and furious. “And you’ve always been such a massive flirt, so handsy and—and affectionate. And that’s _fine,_ that’s who you are, Oikawa, but if you thought it wouldn’t affect me—”

Tooru’s heartbeat picks up. He’s still confused, but he’s starting to puzzle it together, and the slowly-forming picture is agonizing in how much he _wants_ it. “What if I—said I want it to. Affect you.”

“There’s no way. You—the only time you ever touched me, you said it was wrong. That you would never—”

 _Fuck, fuck._ “That was because I thought you didn’t want it! I thought you hated it.”

“No, you don’t—no. Don’t say that.” Panic flares across Iwa-chan’s face, tapering away into dread. “You don’t need to do that _for me._ Come on, Oikawa. You’ve been a celebrity since high school, and that’s only going to get worse. At some point your face is going to be on the cover of _Volleyball Magazine_ , and I’m going to draw on it with a marker—”

“Iwa-chan—”

“No! It’s a bad idea for every fucking reason. Don’t mess up your life like that. Friends is all we _can_ be. It’s what I want us to be.” Iwa-chan is looking at the floor again, fists tight at his sides. It breaks Tooru’s heart to see him fighting like this, struggling against something invisible and old as time: _friends is all we can be_. He’s only starting to grasp why it hurts. What he’s been missing, _misreading,_ for years. And it hurts to hope—that Iwa-chan might feel something for him, might have felt something all along.

“If that’s true, why won’t you look at me?” Tooru doesn’t know who’s saying these words, can’t fathom why he’d verbalize them when they’re clearly hurting Iwa-chan so much. It must be because he still isn’t sure.

Because Iwa-chan has never backed away from a challenge, he glances up: mouth twisted, eyes starting to blur. “God, Oikawa, I’m _tired_ of you—of how much I like you, even when you’re impossible.”

“You like me?” Tooru’s whispering now, still angry, but mostly at himself—because if he unwinds everything, traces it back to when all of this uneasiness and _secret-keeping_ started, it was back in junior year of high school, when he’d freaked out and first gotten a girlfriend. “Do you like me, Iwa-chan?”

Iwa-chan says nothing, just stares at him with an expression that Tooru can’t place, until he sees his own reflection in the narrow mirror next to the dresser. That same bitter longing, hope that cuts itself off at the knees—the certainty that things won’t change. A heartache one has come to terms with.

Iwa-chan always answers Tooru, except when he can’t.

So it’s Tooru, for the first time, who reaches out, who tries to be braver. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he starts. He’s terrified, heart crashing in his chest, palms going slick, because if he’s wrong he’ll have ruined everything, and _this time there’ll be absolutely nothing left. “_ I’m sorry about all those girls I dated. I’m sorry I was never clear about how I felt.” Iwa-chan’s eyes are going wide, his expression bleak, like he can’t listen to this anymore. But Tooru keeps going, even if Iwa-chan is right: this is probably a bad idea, it will complicate everything. They can’t help hurting each other because they know each other so well. But he has _also_ never been more sure in his life of what he wants, what he feels, what it means when he closes the gap between them to whisper: “I’m sorry it took me so long to say this, Iwa-chan— _I like you._ I like you so much it hurts whenever I look at you.”

He kisses the angry line between Iwa-chan’s eyebrows, the tip of his peeling nose, and—like a prayer fulfilled—his lips, parted slightly (to retort? in shock? to deny this, like always?). He threads his fingers into Iwa-chan’s spikes; he hasn’t wanted anything this badly since he started playing pro volleyball and he is still certain this is a dream, so he kisses Iwa-chan the way he wanted to earlier, with a tenderness he never gets to show because it scares him too much.

Their noses collide. He leans in, trying to make up for everything, and is only a little surprised when Iwa-chan kisses him back, rough and desperate. His tongue slides against Tooru’s and Tooru groans, his body suddenly flaring hot, even if his heart still feels broken and his mind is trying to catch up with reality. He senses the moment Iwa-chan catches himself, tries to tug away; _I won’t let you_ , Tooru thinks, and curls his arms against Iwa-chan’s back to hold him there, mumbling: “I like you so much I’m going to kiss you even if you hate me.”

Iwa-chan replies, strangled, “You said you’d never kiss me again!”

“I lied,” Tooru says, greedy for more, resentful of any distance between them. “Are you going to hit me?”

“A lot,” Iwa-chan answers, slightly breathless. “Later.”

Tooru claims this as permission and licks Iwa-chan’s lips, pushing Iwa-chan backwards until they’re on the bed and he’s straddling Iwa-chan’s lap, already up against the wall in this impossibly small room. He rolls his hips, moving entirely on instinct, and is satisfied to hear Iwa-chan moan, an anguished sound that travels straight up Tooru’s spine.

“Wait—wait.” Iwa-chan’s self-control is infuriating and magnificent. He pulls back, studies Tooru’s face, still looking crushed. _Wrong, wrong, wrong_. “Oikawa. You’re not—you’re not just doing this because you feel sorry for me?”

Tooru whines in frustration. “God, when have I ever done _anything_ because I was sorry for someone?”

“You’re fucking impossible,” Iwa-chan says. He’s flushed, too adorable for words.

“Excuse me! You won’t even properly admit you like me.”

“I—” Iwa-chan shakes his head, as disbelieving as Tooru feels, but a beautiful smile is breaking across his face. Raw and gleaming and _only for Tooru_ as he takes Tooru’s face in his hands and kisses his forehead, so delicately that Tooru feels boneless. Relief is starting to fill the gaping caverns in his heart—and _desire_ , because dammit, Iwa-chan’s smiling face has always been the cutest (it’s going to make Tooru overeager, which is totally unsexy.) “I love you, Oikawa Tooru. I always have. I always _will_.” He’s so sure, so honest, that Tooru finally believes this might be _real_ , and not some fever dream he’s having from heatstroke on Mt. Misen.

“You should’ve just told me.” He strokes Iwa-chan’s cheek, delights in how his best friend shivers; he loops arms around Iwa-chan’s neck and breathes him in, that smell he knows from forever.

“I love you,” Iwa-chan repeats. If he’s trying to embarrass Tooru it won’t work because he will never, ever get tired of hearing this. Tooru wonders what took them so long; how they were so sure, and yet had it so wrong. They’re both impossible. Clearly they deserve each other. He twists his head to suck bruises onto Iwa-chan’s neck, feel the pulse point beating against his mouth as he resists the urge to bite. After a moment Iwa-chan says, “Hey—stop tugging at my shirt.”

“But I want to—”

“I’m not having sex with you on this tiny-ass bed!” Iwa-chan snaps—but he can’t hide the hungry look in his eyes, the way his hands betray him by skimming up Tooru’s shirt to map the deft ridges in his spine.

#

They don’t have sex on the tiny-ass bed, but not (Tooru will claim, Iwa-chan will deny) for lack of trying.

#

In the weeks leading up to Iwa-chan leaving, Tooru helps him pack up his place. He doesn’t have much, but Tooru likes helping, enjoys the minutiae of errands and Iwa-chan’s gratitude when he comes back from a long day at work to find things in order. They eat dinner together every night, and Tooru learns the particular warmth of seeing Iwa-chan drink his homemade miso soup. It’s familiar—this closeness, being together—but there’s a new layer over everything that makes it embarrassing as hell. Also, he never feels like leaving. Thankfully Iwa-chan doesn’t need to be telegraphed this point too much; he just rolls his eyes and says, “Okay, but don’t be late for your practice.”

Tooru brings his toothbrush over and wakes up every morning bundled in one of Iwa-chan’s old t-shirts, shivering because he runs cold in his sleep, until Iwa-chan, barely awake, wraps him in an embrace and hushes him. Burrowed in Iwa-chan’s arms like that, warm and dazed, Tooru thinks it’s almost, _almost_ worth it that it took this long, if he gets to be here in the end.

“To be honest,” Iwa-chan says one evening, while carefully frying some karaage, “I think I was subconsciously worried it would end up like this if we moved in together.”

Tooru, who is cutting a lemon into wedges, miraculously does not slice his finger off. “You mean we could have been fucking _four years ago?”_

“Yeah, but look how far you got with volleyball.”

“Ugh! You’re the worst! My life is a tragedy.”

“And mine’s a bad romantic comedy.” Iwa-chan smirks, plops chicken onto a plate. “You know, the kind I wouldn’t bring my wife to, since I’m such a jerk.”

It’s still complicated. It’s not like becoming partners was ever going to be easy. But all the difficulties pale in comparison to Iwa-chan tweaking his nose, or nibbling the shell of his ear; to that one time after dinner when Iwa-chan smoothes his lips over Tooru’s ankle, then sucks on the back of Tooru’s knee where it’s propped up on his lap, wheezing when Tooru slides a hand up his thigh, _as if he hadn’t started it_.

They visit Miyagi together the weekend before Iwa-chan leaves. They don’t tell their parents they’re dating, not yet. Tooru grumbles about how Iwa-chan doesn’t trust him. Iwa-chan claims it’s insurance for their relationship (he still doesn’t label it that, but Tooru persists.

“I don’t see why we need to keep it a secret. Frankly I think they’d be delighted.”

“If we break up, at least our moms’ hearts will be intact.”

“Have more faith in me, Iwa-chan!”

“I’m just protecting myself,” he says, but he says it against Tooru’s lips, so Tooru can’t be _that_ pissed).

All too quickly, it’s the dreaded day. Tooru doesn’t cry on the train to the airport, but he can’t help the fresh wave of misery and rage when they’re standing outside the security line, Iwa-chan petting his head.

“You’ll live,” Iwa-chan murmurs, ruthless. “In fact, you will probably forget all about me and have a beautiful new love by the time I’m back. If you break up with me, don’t do it with emoji, okay?”

“I really hate you sometimes.”

“Now you know how I feel.” Iwa-chan grows quiet, smoothing his hand over Tooru’s head. Tooru wishes Iwa-chan was even _slightly more romantic_ , but he takes it back when Iwa-chan sighs and embraces him, that all-encompassing signature hug that makes Tooru feel cocooned. He’s gratified to feel Iwa-chan’s hands tighten where they’re gripping the fabric of his hoodie, reminding him of how _they need each other_. That it’s never been one-sided, despite all his misgivings.

They’ve mapped out the next twelve months, planned their budgets so that Tooru can visit Iwa-chan in London during the New Year’s break. With any luck Iwa-chan will be able to catch one of his regular season games next spring. There’ll be distance—but it will be temporary, and Tooru’s already looking into Hiroshima neighborhoods with decent two bedroom apartments (the other room will be Iwa-chan’s studio), close to the team gymnasium.

“Don’t ignore my texts,” he mumbles into Iwa-chan’s chest, just above his collarbone, where he can tuck his face and get lost in Iwa-chan’s warmth for a moment. He doesn’t mind that other people can see them. The only thing that matters is now he knows he can survive this, because he’s _sure_. For once in his life, he’s not afraid that what he loves most will disappear.

“Behave,” Iwa-chan says. When Tooru pouts at him, Iwa-chan mouths: “I love you.”

He lets Iwa-chan brush the tears starting to course down his cheek, and whispers his reply into Iwa-chan’s hands, kissing his palms: _I love you._ _For you I will be the gate and the sea. Just keep coming back to me._

And sure as gravity, Iwa-chan does.

**Author's Note:**

> 勇: bravery/courage  
> 心願成就: a four-character compound that means "earnest prayers being answered" or "the realization of one's earnest wishes"
> 
> Title and inspiration come from Annelyse Gelman's poem "Classical Conditioning."
> 
> Sorry I made Oikawa so angsty and self-loathing. I have this theory that he's incredibly self-aware, but also powerless to stop himself doing certain things. Tbh, I thought I'd be writing something quick and sweet, and instead made this monster, mostly because I got stuck on the Gusari-inspired image of Iwaizumi as a pro photographer. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments are always much appreciated.


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